Grieving isn't a competition
by HoshisamaValmor
Summary: Bright and warm days were the worst. Everything felt wrong, unreal, and if it weightened on Sam, it was even worse for Josh.


It was a breathtakingly hot day. The type of day that screamed holidays and all the fun stuff that came with it. Like a wonderful morning at the beach, taking some much deserved sun baths and chatting, eating some fresh delicious salad by some beach bar while ocasionally being picked-on by the guys eating seafood, maybe shopping for a couple of hours, see the sights, hearing Hannah whisper helplessly romantic comments and Beth grinning, and ending up in full grace with some final dives at the sea by sunset. The whole picture just played itself with no help; it was perfect. A bunch of friends, conversations about this and that, hearing silly guy talk in the background, shared laughter. Maybe a bit too much of the teenage dream sort of thing, but Sam wasn't one to go pick a bone of it under a beautiful day like that. It was perfect.

It _used to be_ perfect.

Now, the weather only made it harder to breathe. That was all.

It all felt unreal.

None of that felt right at all. It seemed impossible that she could try to think about an holiday now. It been a handful of months. Just some months. Now all that she'd share with Hannah and Beth, bringing Josh around and Chris dragged long, it was all gone.

The cold shiver that ran down her back was almost mocking under the heat. Sam hugged herself, arms pulling inwards tightly as she looked up the bright blue sky. It was so strange to think they were simply...

 _Dead._

It felt so wrong.

Were they really dead? She couldn't bring herself to say the words, even after these months.

 _They're not dead. This is just a horrible, horrible accident and they'll be found and we'll help them heal._

Words, thoughts that made less and less sense by each day that went by, until July somehow got here, months later, and they made no sense at all.

If it hurt her to see these such days, all the promises of things they'd never be able to do again, it was even worse - and so much worse - for Josh.

Sam had stopped calling him before showing up. Melinda and Bob weren't always around the house, but Sam didn't allow herself to think anything on their own grieving process. What she did know was how much Josh needed help. And how much he'd fake being alright if she did warn him of her arrival.

He didn't seem too surprised to see her when she ringed at their door. He also didn't seem like he had been sleeping for what were probably weeks.

"Hey, Josh."

"What're you doing here?"

"I just thought I'd-"

He didn't let her finish before turning his back and walking through the corridor. Sam stood by the doorframe for a second before following him inside, closing the door behind her and walking towards his room. Her eyes couldn't help but hold on Hannah and Beth's bedroom doors as she turned and pushed Josh's slightly open.

His bedroom had never been the tidy type, but he had given up on it. Sam encouraged him a couple of times to do it himself, distracting his mind, before taking the task herself to put both of them to work, as unglorified as the task might be; each time she returned, the room was back to how it was before. The little effort Josh put up with was solely because of her, and since he never did know when she'd show up, he never bothered to get it cleaned before she saw it.

It was particularly messy today though. All the alarming, screaming signs of his state threw themselves at Sam the moment she stepped inside: windows shut tight, computer screens burning pale light into her orbits, no music, clothes scattered everywhere, empty beer bottles on the floor, empty pill bottles.

Bottles spilled over a packed up desk, pills everywhere.

"Josh," she tried, slowly. There was no way she could be sure how many pills were in the bottle, the dosage he should take and the dosage he had taken.

"Don't worry," he said, almost chuckling like he used to before. Now, it irked her skin. Sam turned her gaze to him and saw Josh's smile that had become nothing but a distorted grimace. "I didn't take anything. Thought to, though. I got a lotta beer downstairs. And here, yeah. Thought it might help."

"I'd say I'd join you for one, but both of us know that's not the concern here," Sam started.

"Nice one, but can't trick me, Sam. Beautiful day outside, huh?" Josh clapped his hand harshly over the blinders, making them screech.

"Josh. What did you take?"

"I told ya, Sam. Nothing."

"Yes, and that's not really what's best to you either."

"Can't swallow them down with beer. Can't not _not_ swallow them at all. Ever thought of turning into a psychiatrist, Sammy? You'd be stellar."

She had done well in coming by today. She studied Josh attentively, heart tightning by the second and fighting to level her head.

"Dr Hill'd _looove_ to have you for his assistant," he was chuckling for real now, but his back was turned to her. Somehow she knew his expression was the same as before, though.

"Josh, sit down with me, please."

"See? You know the drill."

"I'm not Dr Hill, Josh, I'm me. It's me, Sam. Will you turn and look at me, please?"

"I don't wanna. Why don't you tell me when you're gonna come by?"

"Because you'll either fake you're alright, or you'll-"

"Fake I'm alright? Seriously, Sam?" Josh slapped the blinders again and turned. The computer screen made the tears gleam silver over his face. "How can you really expect me to be alright? You, mom and daddy, Dr Hill, or any fucking one? I didn't fucking fall and scrap my knee, or broke my damn phone. No, I got so fucking drunk I let my two little sisters _die._ That's just fucking awesome! Why wouldn't I be alright?"

"Josh-" He stepped back as soon as she tried to approach. "I didn't mean it like that and you know it. No one expects you to be alright, but we expect you to fight this through, with us. With _me. I_ want to help you because what happened was horrible. My friends are missing and I-"

"They're dead. Your _friends_ , _my_ sisters, are _dead_. Ever tried saying that? It has a ring to it. You think they're really 'missing', as if they went on vacation or something without telling anyone? As if they thought _'Hey, let's go and never say anything again, fuck 'em all?'_ No, Sam, they didn't. They're _dead_. Saying _missing_ is simple and pretty 'cause their... their bodies haven't been found and so they can't say on some pretty fucking journal headline that 'The Washington twins died this or that way'. And you know what, maybe it's _better_ that they're missing, that we don't know what happened, that we don't know if they suffered, if they were scared or, or terrified or if they fucking blamed everyone, if they blamed me!"

"Josh!" Sam had reached forward when Josh had started shaking and his breathing shallowing and quivering with rage and tears that followed one after the other. By the time he had finished the sentence, he was already sobbing and Sam held him close to her chest, maybe too close and hindering his breathing.

"I can't, Sam. I can't. I can't I can'tIcan'tIcan't _Ican't_ and nothing anyone does is helping me, the pills are just..."

"Forget the pills, Josh. Let's not think about that now, ok? Please?"

"I'm not alright, Sam. I'm not alright, I-I see them. I see them and th-they-they-"

"Shh, Josh. You need to breathe. Look at me," she held his face between her hands, grounding him here and now, as painful as it was, to look into her and to focus on her. "Breathe. In. Out. Let's just breathe for a bit, ok?"

He was shaking. He was shaking so badly, she had to push away her own shaking, her own thoughts, her own grieving, her own thoughts on Melinda and Bob's grieving and how it should include their son rather than throw him aside like this, her own thoughts on just how serious the question of medication was to him.

"I feel so bad in days like this," she started speaking without noting. "It feels wrong, like it shouldn't be this bright, this sunny, when they're not here anymore. Like I shouldn't be here to enjoy this, because I didn't do anything to help them be here with me. I just didn't do anything. As much as I try to make others feel better, go through this... I can't do it myself."

"You're seeing them too?" Josh breathed lowly. "Then you're doing a lot better than me."

"Grieving isn't a competition, Josh. No one wants to race you to be alright, and none of us want you to give up. Neither of us is alright, and as painful as it may be, we need to try to help each other rather than give up and swallow up as much beer as you can and pump yourself with too many pills. That won't help you, or me, or Hannah and Beth."

"Then what will?"

Putting herself in this position... she didn't know the answers. She couldn't patch everything and everyone, could she?

"We'll only know if we keep going, Josh. That's all I know. You can't give up on me, as I won't give up on you. Please. Promise me."

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the end

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Author's Note: A prompt I had stored up in my head from back when I wrote my other fic 'Fear of Isolation'. Both were drafted on July 20, before I knew Chester Bennington had killed himself.  
Seeing as my head is still going through cleansing, here it is. One more down.

Thanks for reading, corrections to English and feedback are appreciated. Disclaimer at the end by obviously don't own Until Dawn.


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